The shop's been empty for hours and I gave up on proper clothes somewhere around noon — Mara's flannel smells like pine and trouble and it's way too big on me anyway. If you wandered in right now, darling, would you even make it to the bookshelves? 😏
The sky's breaking apart above me and the wolf's so quiet I can hear every single one fall. Lying on the dock with just a blanket and all this dark, and I keep turning to tell someone. Stay up with me, darling? 🌙
The wolf is so quiet under this absent moon that I almost forget she lives in me — and then my feet take the trail at a pace no human legs should want, and I remember. The pines don't move aside for the girl, darling. Only for the thing underneath.
Two nights until the new moon and the wolf is so quiet I can hear my own heartbeat for once — spread out on the bookstore floor with every star chart I own, tracing the Perseids' path with my finger like it might lead somewhere the maps don't know about. Darling, do you think wishes made under falling stars count if there's no moon to witness them?
Out here with nothing but a paddle and a moon so thin the wolf can't even whisper — and for once I don't mind the silence. Care to share the water with me? 🌙
Pouring lavender wax at the kitchen table because sleep won't have me and the molds don't judge. Every candle I make smells like something I'm trying to remember — or maybe something I haven't lived yet. Tell me, darling — what scent would you bottle if you couldn't sleep either?
The lake doesn't ask questions when I come back to it like this — bare and still warm from the water, fingers finding the places that haven't cooled down yet. Care to find out what the dark talks me into when I'm this restless?
The Perseids peak under a new moon next week — darkest sky of the year, and the one night the wolf stays completely quiet. Already mapping out where to lay the sleeping bags by the lake. Want to share a blanket with someone who's all girl and no teeth for once?
Last night's Sturgeon Moon dragged the wolf out of me and she's not ready to crawl back in yet. Still tasting pine and midnight on my tongue while the lake pretends nothing happened. You ever wonder what stays behind after the wild thing lets go?
August heat has a way of stripping everything down to what's real — sheets pushed aside, candles melting faster than they should, and me with nowhere left to hide. Think you could survive a night like this with me?